When the gorgeous butterfly In the jubilee of spring Floats voluptuously by, Borne on gold and purple wing: Oft those damask wings are torn By the faithless rose's thorn. So—when life is fresh and gay, Mortals, with capricious joy, Flutter heedlessly away, Whither fairest flowers decoy: Soon, alas! their wings are torn By perfidious Pleasure's thorn! |